July 22, 2015

Anomaly Detected: an excerpt of S.H. Jucha's "The Silver Ships"

S.H.
Jucha has had an extensive career as a senior manager in the
technical education and software development industries, with degrees
in Biology and Broadcast Communications. He has been driven by an
innate interest in computers since his initial adoption of an IBM PC
in 1981. Jucha’s new novel,The
Silver Ships,—the
product of extensive planning, researching and development—is now
part of a planned five-book series with a potential spin-off in the
works.

About The Silver Ships:An explorer-tug captain, Alex Racine detects a damaged alien craft drifting into the system. Recognizing a once in a lifetime opportunity to make first contact, Alex pulls off a daring maneuver to latch on to the derelict.

Alex discovers the ship was attacked by an unknown craft, the first of its kind ever encountered. The mysterious silver ship's attack was both instant and deadly.

What enfolds is a story of the descendants of two Earth colony ships, with very different histories, meeting 700 years after their founding and uniting to defend humanity from the silver ships.

“The
object is headed in system at thirteen degrees below the ecliptic.
Distance is 388 million kilometers.”

“Velocity?”

“It’s
constant at 0.02c.”

His
heart skipped a beat. “That’s too fast for an asteroid. So what
are you?”

New
Terrans had ventured no further than the ice fields, a dense ring of
asteroids circling beyond Seda, a gas giant and their system’s
ninth and last planet. Since their colony’s founding 732 years ago,
there hadn’t been any outside contact…human or otherwise.

“How
soon before it reaches the ice fields?”

“At
its present velocity, it will enter the rings in five days.”

“When
will it intersect our system horizon?”

“Two
days later, it will cross the ecliptic near Seda.”

At
present, he was headed for Sharius, one of Seda’s moons, for
refueling. The Outward
Bound, under its 1g
acceleration, had achieved a velocity of 0.01c. In seven days, his
path would intersect with the anomaly.

Thirteen
days earlier, Alex had piloted his explorer-tug next to a dark,
craggy, 580m long asteroid, whose thick layer of water ice covered a
small, solid core. Using tractor beams, he’d pinned it to his ship
then fired a two-meter long metal shaft into the ice. An electronic
beacon housed in the shaft switched on and began broadcasting.
Encoded with Tara’s telemetry, it did double duty as information
for bidders and as a tracking signal, broadcasting the asteroid’s
tag and his ship’s ID.

Tara
recorded the claim with the Ministry, initiating the bidding. All the
mining outposts on Ganymede’s frozen, rocky moons and the
government habitats on Niomedes were bidders, as none possessed a
natural source of water. Days later, the Niomedes’ Gordon Habitat
was confirmed as the highest bidder and the new owner of Alex’s
latest haul.

With
the asteroid firmly tethered in place, the Outward
Bound, with engines
blasting, had slowly redirected the mass from its ancient orbit into
a new trajectory. Running Alex’s proprietary g-sling program, Tara
had tightened their arc until the desired course was achieved. Alex,
in the meantime, had endured the heavy acceleration reclined in his
pilot’s couch and eating pre-packaged rations.

When
Tara announced the exit point, Alex had freed the asteroid, slinging
it on a ballistic course, system inward. This was the beauty of his
innovative, mathematical model. While other explorer-tug captains
were forced to haul their asteroids to their destinations—Sirius,
Ganymede, or Niomedes—Alex slung them directly to the buyer’s
planet or moon.

It
had taken nearly three years and a perfect record before the Ministry
of Space Exploration had deemed his program viable and approached him
with an offer. Alex knew that once the Ministry owned the
application, they would distribute it to every government-contracted
tug Captain. The moment they did, his exclusive and lucrative edge
would come to an end. So he drove a hard bargain for its sale and won
three years of bonus payout on top of the Ministry’s original
offer.

He
was returning for another haul from the ice fields by way of a
refueling stop when Tara had informed him of the strange object.

Alex
had spared no expense for Tara, his bridge computer, and had
patterned her voice synthesis program on recordings of his college
advisor, Amy Mallard. The striking brunette’s orbital mechanics
class was one of the most popular courses at Ulam University,
especially among the male undergraduates. She was also one of the
university’s most brilliant professors.

He
passed the days exercising, reading, and watching vids on his reader
as he closed the distance to Sharius. If Tara had been human, his
unceasing information requests would probably have earned him a slap
upside the head. Eventually, as the distance closed, she was able to
display a dim outline of the object. It was slender and symmetrical
with no heat signature.

“So…we
have what…an alien vessel on a cold coast coming from outside the
system?” Alex mused out loud. Tara didn’t respond—she was
programmed to ignore rhetorical questions. With no one else on board,
Alex had fallen into the habit of sharing his thoughts with her.

The
image changed the nature of Alex’s curiosity. Before, he’d wanted
to see it; now, he wanted to touch it. But he and the alien ship were
on opposing trajectories. Even if he reversed course, it was moving
at twice his velocity and would pass him by with a delta-V of nearly
3K km/sec.

He
debated comming Sharius, the government outpost for explorer-tug
support and refueling. Ultimately, he decided against it since he
hadn’t made his own decision about the ship. He passed the time in
his chair, idly calculating intercepts, discarding one plan after
another. One plan he concocted had the slimmest possibility of
working, although its initiation window was closing fast. Despite the
hazards, his curiosity had begun to consume him, forcing his
decision—he would risk it.

He
leapt up, grabbed the rungs of the bridge ladder and slid down into
the central living hub, which rotated around the tug’s spine,
providing gravity when the ship coasted. In his tiny galley, he
grabbed a handful of meal bars then changed into an acceleration
suit.

Jumping
back into his pilot’s chair, he stashed his meal bars and hooked
his suit into the ship’s cleanser system, which processed his sweat
and wastes. He loaded the flight plan into Tara’s navigational
sub-system, shifted the chair into its horizontal position, strapped
himself in, and executed the program.

Long
plumes of incandescence bloomed from the Outward
Bound’s engines,
accelerating the ship toward Seda. His plan was to sling around the
gas giant and come to a nearly
parallel course with
the vessel.

Uncertainty
haunted Alex as he gritted his mouth guard. If the latch was solid,
his ship would be yanked forward and twisted onto a new trajectory,
even if only by a few degrees. The force could damage his ship…and
maybe him. And he wasn’t ready to die, not at twenty-eight years
old, the youngest captain in New Terra’s short, eighty-three-year
history of space exploration.

Alex
wasn’t only the Captain of the Outward
Bound; he was its sole
owner. Other explorer-tugs had a minimum crew of four, mandated by
their government contract. Alex, as an independent owner-operator,
chose to go it alone. He preferred his own company to that of
strangers, and he’d never been one to have many friends.

His
late teenage years were spent on his parent’s explorer-tug, the No
Bounds, mining the
system’s great asteroid belt. With their efficient engines and
powerful tractor beams, the tugs were designed to be the perfect
crafts to harvest the ice fields.

After
university, Alex had spent three more years with his family on their
tug, employing his new g-sling program with great success. The
inventive approach to harvesting had guaranteed his parents met then
exceeded the conditions of their government contract. On completion
of the contract, they were awarded the ship’s title and had sold
it. They’d retired and invested their profits with Alex in the
Outward Bound.

Throughout
his ship’s design and construction, he’d pushed the engineers to
build a one-of-a-kind explorer-tug. And with it, he’d delivered
sixty percent more asteroids annually than his parents had been able
to sling with the No
Bounds. In two years,
he had repaid his parents with interest.

As
he accelerated toward Seda, pressed deep into his couch, he mused
that he was about to find out if he’d gotten his creds’ worth.

Hours
into his burn, he received an emergency comm from Sharius Tracking
Control requesting his status and asking if he needed assistance.
Normally, ships nearing Sharius were decelerating to dock for
supplies and refueling, not shooting past them for the great dark.
Alex managed a chuckle even through the heavy pressure on his chest.
He was nearing 0.012 c. “Just how would you catch me if I did
need help?” he
wondered out loud. Instead, he asked Tara to send his pre-recorded
message.

He
wished he had a vid link to Sharius’ control room to watch their
faces when they played his message. His reputation and g-sling’s
perfect record meant they wouldn’t dismiss a message from him
offhand, no matter how crazy it sounded. They’d monitor his
approach, confirm his slingshot trajectory, and swing their tracking
dish to the coordinates he had shared. Once they verified the alien
vessel, they’d relay his comm to the government tracking centers on
Cressida, Niomedes, and New Terra. A priority message would be sent
to the Minister’s office, adding substantially to his notoriety. He
had been quite the media sensation after his first slung asteroid
arrived on target. This message, as soon as it leaked to the news
media, would make that story pale by comparison.

As
he accelerated around Seda, his vision tunneled, threatening a
blackout. Bright pinpoints of lights danced in the corners of his
eyes. He concentrated on mathematical computations, a trick he used
to help him focus. When he cleared Seda’s gravity well, his vision
slowly cleared.

“Update,”
he requested.

“We
are on course,” Tara replied. “Velocity is 0.018c; acceleration
is holding at 4.3 G; engines are within operating parameters;
reaction mass is at 38 percent. Estimated time to intercept is 3.42
hours; velocity at intercept will be 0.0198c; delta-V estimated at
0.0001c; delta trajectory will be 2.2 degrees.”

“Object
on screen,” Alex coughed out and sipped from his water tube. He
stared at the image. The vessel was an order of magnitude larger than
the Outward Bound and
unlike any ship of his people. New Terrans had built tugs, fuel
haulers, shuttles, and small freighters that carried passengers. This
multi-decked, slim-lined, 300-meter long ship, distinctly free of
gravity wheels, was much more technologically advanced. Telemetry
still detected no heat signature and the ship’s aft end silhouette
appeared to be distorted or damaged. “No doubt about it, Tara. It’s
an alien ship.”

“Spectrographic
return on the hull is an unknown alloy,” Tara added.

“Okay,”
he mumbled, “not only an alien ship, but an advanced
alien ship. But the
real question is whether this is salvage or rescue.”

As
he waited out the few remaining hours, his mind whirled with more
questions. If this was salvage, would he be awarded the rights to
sell the ship? On the other hand, what if it was a rescue? Who would
he be rescuing? And his last and strangest thought was whether any
survivors would be grateful for their rescue…or was he about to be
a snack for starving aliens.

*
* *

The
starship and the tug crossed bows so close that any tracking center
observer would think they’d collided. Just before interception,
Tara energized the tractor engines to full power and fired the beams
at the hurtling derelict. The tug’s hull groaned under the sudden
acceleration and the small but significant two-degree course shift.
Alex’s body was jerked within his restraints and he blacked out.

As
he came to, the dim light he perceived grew brighter, the black edges
fading to gray before his vision finally cleared. He called out, “Are
we latched on?”

“The
target has been acquired. Drive engines have been shut down,”
replied Tara, her melodic voice a pleasant balm to his bruised mind
and body.

Alex
unstrapped himself and activated the chair’s upright position. The
weightlessness was a relief after the crushing acceleration. The
alien hull captured in the tug’s exterior vid cam filled his
display screen. He murmured, “Look what I found, Mom. Can I keep
it?”

In
that moment, Alex urgently wanted to share his success with someone,
anyone—jump up and down with a friend, hug a woman. But, he
acknowledged, this was the sore point of going it alone. He didn’t
regret the way he’d chosen to spend the past three years. The creds
he’d accrued would allow him financial freedom to pursue other
projects. But he’d come to understand one thing; his difficulty
forming meaningful relationships wouldn’t be solved by self-imposed
isolation.

He
shook his head to clear his thoughts and belatedly remembered his
black out as stars twinkled at the corners of his dimmed vision.
“Idiot,” he announced. “Tara, what’s the status of our
reaction mass?”

“The
tanks are at twenty-three percent.”

“That’s
not good.” At those levels, he should be headed for Sharius, not
shooting above the ecliptic. He checked his chronometer and was
shocked to realize he’d been out for almost five hours. “Display
the planet positions,” he requested.

He
groaned as he realized Ganymede and Niomedes, the only two planets
with fuel services that might have stood between him and New Terra,
were passing on the far side of Oistos, their star. His only viable
target was New Terra. “Tara, plot the most efficient burn to
rendezvous with New Terra.”

It
was quiet while Tara calculated the added mass of the new ship, the
required deceleration curve, and the required delta-V. When
completed, she announced, “We have insufficient reaction mass for a
zero velocity rendezvous with New Terra.”

“Black
space,” Alex muttered. “Calculate a deceleration burn to put us
on course for New Terra until reaction mass is at five percent.”

After
a couple moments, Tara responded. “A course change for rendezvous
must be initiated within 92 hours. Shifting the start time will
create a deceleration variable of 0.25g to 3.3g.

“Estimate
velocity at time of shut down with the most efficient burn.”

The
question wasn’t only whether he had enough reaction mass to head
back into the system, but if he had enough to reduce his speed
sufficient to enable a fueling tug to rendezvous with him. They were
traveling close to 0.02c, and their velocity would need to be far
below 0.01c. Otherwise, he would have to cut his prize free, and that
was an unthinkable loss.

“Most
efficient burn of 0.25g requires initiation within the next 3 hours.
Estimated velocity at five percent reserves will be 29K km/sec to 30K
km/sec.”

Alex’s
breath blew out in a whoosh. He had enough reaction mass to keep his
prize even if it resulted in a cold coast toward New Terra, and
he could decelerate
sufficiently to match a refueling tanker’s slower velocity.
Although, a rescue refueling would mean owing the government before
negotiations over the alien ship even began. This would be the same
Ministry he’d gone head-to-head with for the sale of his g-sling
program only two months ago—but there was no avoiding that. “This
is going to cost me,” he mumbled.

He
was in parallel with the derelict, bow to bow, and would have to
reverse this orientation before Tara could initiate their course
change. “Switch off bow and aft tractor beams,” he ordered.
“Rotate us around the central beam until optimum position is
achieved for the deceleration program.”

Alex
monitored his display screen as the derelict’s hull rotated past.
The smooth surface was marred by holes varying from half a meter to a
meter in diameter. “It looks like they ran afoul of an asteroid
storm.”

Tara
signaled the rotation’s finish. “Optimum position achieved.”

“Re-engage
bow and aft tractor beams. Initiate course change for rendezvous with
New Terra with most efficient burn. Shut the engines off when
reaction mass drops to five percent.”

“The
deceleration program has been initiated. Fuel reserve status set.”

At
only eleven percent power, the Outward
Bound’s engines
supplied 0.25g, decelerating their coupled crafts and curving them
back toward the ecliptic and New Terra.

Alex
climbed down into the central hub. He took out two synth-meals, added
water, and popped them into a heater. He wasn’t any taller than
most of his people at 1.8 meters. But his 146 kilogram frame of heavy
muscle, courtesy of a 1.12 grav-world and years spent helping his
father offload space junk, demanded more than a single synth meal at
a time. Reaching his arms overhead, he could feel his shoulder
muscles roll and pop. While waiting for the food to heat, he spent
the time stretching sore muscles.

When
the heater chimed, he grabbed an over-sized tray, loaded it with the
meal pouches, utensils, and a sealed juice carafe then climbed back
to the bridge. Settling into his chair, his placed the food tray in
his lap and quickly consumed the meal. He let the desserts cool in
their pouches while he checked his comm board.

A
priority message from Sharius Tracking Center was listed at the top
of the display. Another tap and Colonel Damon Stearns, commander of
Sharius, appeared on his vid screen. “Captain Racine, at the time
of this message, you are about to attempt an interception of the
alien ship. If you have been successful, you are requested to stay in
your ship and redirect to New Terra. Arrangements will be made to
relieve you of the craft before you enter orbit. Please acknowledge
soonest.”

Alex
replayed the message twice more as he finished his desserts. “Did
you notice, Tara, the Colonel did say requested, not ordered?”

“Affirmative,
Alex.”

It
seemed the Colonel had recalled Alex didn’t report to Terran
Security Forces or the Ministry of Space Exploration. He was an
owner, who had to report to no one. On the other hand, he didn’t
want to anger those in power.

In
the end, he decided to borrow a favorite ruse of his kid sister,
Christie. She had the frustrating habit of pretending she didn’t
know her unapproved adventures were off limits. The Colonel would
later receive a message saying that he had already been on EVA when
the request arrived. Alex knew if he followed TSF’s or the
Ministry’s guidance, he’d never get a look inside the ship. “I
ran it down, and I’m getting first peek,” he mumbled.

Alex
ordered Tara to cut the aft tractor beam and tied two directives to
his deceleration instructions. Setting no
watch and EVA
conditions on the
control board, he grabbed his tray and climbed back down to the
central hub, recycling his empty food pouches and heading aft through
the spine tube to the rear airlock. It took time to climb into his
85kg EVA suit with its mag-boots, armored gloves, tool belt, and
oxygen tanks. He snapped his helmet into place, checked his oxygen
read out, and cued Tara with engines
off.

When
he felt the engines shutdown, he depressurized the airlock, which
recycled the air back into the ship’s reserve tanks. Then he
released the outer hatch’s locking mechanism and swiveled the hatch
aside. The derelict was oriented upside down. He regarded the
fifty-five meters separating him from the huge ship and searched for
a point of ingress. Odd symbols in two columns left and right of an
area seemed to indicate a hatch, but the hull was in shadow, and a
hatch wasn’t visible.

He
pulled a grappling pistol from his belt and clipped its safety line
to the retaining ring on the tug’s hull. Aiming at the symbols, he
fired the pistol’s mag-clamp. It sailed across the gap, the line
paying out behind it, but the mag-clamp bounced off the hull.

“Well,
she said it was an unknown alloy,” he mumbled.

He
reeled the line back on to its spool and reattached the pistol to his
belt. Then, before he had time to argue himself out of it, he wrapped
stik-pads over his boots and gloves, aligned his body with the
derelict, and triggered the suit’s jets. He floated across the gap,
the safety line paying out behind him as his heart thundered in his
chest. When he struck the hull, four meters to the left of his
target, the impact jarred his teeth, but his stik-pads anchored him
in position.

Now,
he could just make out the hatch. “That’s some great
craftsmanship,” he murmured, admiring the exquisitely fitted metal
surfaces.

Small
sensors, embedded in the ship’s hull, had relayed the contact of
the Outward Bound’s
tractor beams.
Subsequently, other sensors relayed the impacts of the mag-clamp then
Alex. The signals were transmitted to the ship’s bridge, initiating
a wake-up routine.

As
the derelict ship drifted through space, power had become a premium,
and the bridge computer, managing what little energy remained in its
power-crystals, had shut down its sub-routines and later its primary
routines in an attempt to preserve its existence for as long as
possible.

Utilizing
the barest amount of energy, the wake-up routine ended the entity’s
time dilation program. Restored to real time, the self-aware digital
entity (SADE) studied the sensor logs and the small, odd craft
holding it in traction. It monitored the progress of the humanoid
figure walking across its hull. When the figure crossed into shadow,
its tinted visor cleared, providing an unobstructed view of its
face. In response, the SADE signaled the airlock’s exterior hatch
to open.

Alex
knelt beside the hatch, the Outward
Bound floating above
him. He’d searched for an access panel without success and was
rethinking his approach when the hatch recessed a half meter into the
hull and slid aside.

“Yeah,
just ask,” he said to himself. He switched on his suit lights,
illuminating the darkened interior, released one boot then the other
and used his jets to glide inside. The outer airlock hatch promptly
closed behind him, but before he could panic, the interior hatch slid
open. No attempt was made at atmosphere replacement. There was no
air, but there was power. “So is this automation or a welcome?”
Alex murmured.

Alex
tested his comm to Tara and received a response. He signaled engines
on to reinstate the
decel program and steadied himself with an outstretched arm against a
bulkhead as the Outward
Bound’s engines
ignited.

The
interior corridor was anything but utilitarian. It was spacious and
clean-lined, without pipes or ducts running overhead. Doors were
evenly spaced down the corridor. An odd thing though—there were no
numbers, letters, or labels of any kind—causing him to wonder how
anyone knew where they were going.

Dust
motes, floating throughout the corridor, and a fine sheen of ice
crystals coating every surface reflected his lights back to him. The
debris was settling toward the bow under the deceleration. A piece of
delicate, multi-hued, faded fabric caught on his shoulder as it
drifted past. He’d never been on a dead ship before; never had to
recover the bodies of those who’d died in space. The thought made
him shudder.

Down
the corridor, a small light blinked on. Then a second and a third
light followed suit, blinking on and off slowly and rhythmically,
three meters apart from one another. As Alex stared, more of them
joined the pattern, like night lights guiding a shuttle landing. He
recalled one of his father’s favorite comments: “Anything done by
half measure is done half-assed.”

So
Alex took a deep breath, blew it out slowly, and let loose of the
bulkhead. Having removed the stik-pads from his boots, he used the
Outward Bound’s
momentum to drive him down the corridor toward the bow, following the
lights. They led up a wide, vertical chute located inside the
bulkhead wall. He halted his motion by bracing a boot in the shaft’s
opening and slapping a stik-padded glove against a bulkhead. The
shaft was empty, so he crawled on his hands and knees along its
forward face. Even though the engines only generated 0.25g, his
combined mass pressed him forward with 56 kilograms of force.

The
chute opened into another corridor and Alex followed the lights to a
wide access way. A double set of split doors, spaced two meters
apart, were open. Beyond the doorways lay an extensive bridge with
enormous vid screens. Two large command chairs, centrally located,
were elevated on a pedestal and surrounded by small vid and control
panels. Despite the bridge’s impressive appearance, Alex’s first
reaction was one of relief. The chairs were shaped much like his
pilot’s chair, a sign that the occupants are or were humanoid.

A
small vid screen on one of the command chairs lit up. “Uh, oh…”
he whispered. He released his hold on the doorway and floated across
to the chair, bracing a hand against its back. The screen was
obscured by a film of ice crystals, which he carefully scraped away
with a stik-pad, surprised that it could operate in the cold vacuum.

Character
groups scrolled up the screen, but he couldn’t read them. As the
letters Sol-NAC appeared in his own alphabet, he flexed an
EVA-encumbered hand toward the screen and the rolling list froze. The
hairs on the back of his neck stood up and he glanced around the
bridge. Turning back to the screen, he positioned an armored finger
over Sol-NAC.

The
screen went blank then refreshed with words in his language. “Hello.
I’m Julien, this vessel’s SADE, a self-aware digital entity. How
are you called?” The screen went blank, replaced by an alphanumeric
keypad.

Alex
carefully typed out his first name.

“Hello,
Alex,” scrolled the response, “I’m in need of your help. Are
you the Captain of the ship that anchors us?”

Alex
typed in his reply, “Yes,” and then, “Are you an AI?” New
Terrans had yet to develop AIs, but that hadn’t stopped computer
scientists from postulating a myriad of possibilities.

“Our
ship has been heavily damaged, Captain. The bridge has been cut off
from its primary power supply and my backup power is extremely
limited. A new power source is required immediately.”

Alex
typed, “Want to help. No means of transferring power.”

“I
have a means in mind, Captain,” appeared on the screen.

For
the next half hour, Alex responded to the SADE’s questions about
his ship’s manner of propulsion and how he managed a supply of
energy while in dock. Then he turned and exited the bridge, headed
for the chute that led down and out to his ship.

The
SADE watched Alex leave and pondered his abrupt departure. No
agreement had been reached. He reran the exchange, hoping to discern
whether the individual was choosing to help, leaving them adrift, or
allowing him to expire so the ship could be claimed. He couldn’t
reach any conclusion. His only option was to do what he had been
doing for years: wait.

The
Silver Ships is
available on Amazon.
The next installment in the series, Libre,
releases on August 1, 2015. Learn more about S.H. Jucha (ū•hă)
at www.scottjucha.com
and connect with him through Goodreads
or follow his blog.

About Libre: A Silver Ships Novel: The saga of the Rêveur continues in this second novel in The Silver Ships series.

The surviving Méridiens have returned to Confederation space, aided by their recently discovered cousins, the New Terrans. They expect a celebration after their 71-year absence. Instead, they’re shocked to find the silver ships have destroyed half the Confederation.

The Méridiens are fleeing in advance of the horde of alien ships. But Alex Racine and his crew didn’t come this far to run away from humanity’s enemy. They intend to hunt the silver ships. But, to succeed, they need help.

Renée de Guirnon, the leader of the Rêveur’s Méridiens, reveals a sordid secret of Méridien society: citizens who defy their House, for any reason, are stripped of their rights, declared “Independents,” and imprisoned on the planet Libre.

But the Independents aren’t everyone’s pariahs, especially if you’re Alex Racine and you’re looking for allies against the silver ships. An entire colony of independent, free-thinking radicals offers just the sort of people Alex wants on his side, and an alliance is struck.

Soon the enemy ships will swarm off the planet Bellamonde, so the race begins for Alex and the Librans. The planet must be evacuated and the military force readied before the silver ships attack. Alex knows a battle is coming, but will they have enough time to prepare?